


Only Teardrops

by raiyana



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Inspired by Music, SWG Challenge entry, preparing for war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 16:13:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14855990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: The Host of the Valar is almost ready to leave for Beleriand.A "End of First Age"-sequel to Walk down Memory Lane.





	Only Teardrops

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Only Teardrops](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/387581) by Emmelie de Forest. 



_The sky is red tonight…_

_It’s an odd new-fangled phrase, born with the Sun, but somehow apt even in hindsight,_ she thinks, staring out across the waters.

_...red as blood spilled. And tears..._

Far beyond view lies Beleriand, far below lies the shipyards of her people, a bustle of movement like a disturbed anthill in the light of the setting sun, but brimming with purpose.

Ships.

Like those stolen so long ago, but better, surer, stronger, _more_.

 _After all that has come between us... it is almost here; and yet still so far away. An eye for an eye - or a Silmaril, at least, my love,_ she thinks, and her smile is not a pleasant thing to see. _Can you look at me now,_ she wonders _, and see the one you wed?_

But how, when she hardly recognises herself, the hands that once played across pages leaving tales and songs in their wake now used to the haft of a sword, the swing of deadly steel. He would be horrified – and guilty – to see her thus, she knows, and the thought turns her smile wry.

_We've only ourselves to blame, I fear, and more teardrops in store before the end._

A hand, rough with old callouses slides into her own and interrupts her reverie.

“You will go with them?” her law-mother asks gently, joining her in staring East.

She shivers in the chill breeze coming suddenly from the north, bringing with it stories of ice and darkness, stories of death and a stubborn will to keep going beyond endurance or safety.

“I must go.” It is not a choice, to her, and the squeeze of her hand tells her Nerdanel knows it.

“I will not,” she admits, even as her tone gives away her longing.

“They denied you, then?” Nyarnien – once Telperína, one of the Reborn Slain – asks softly, returning the squeeze.

“A condition of the plan,” Nerdanel sighs, “I suppose they think me rebellious _now_ …” She laughs, and for a moment mirth fills the air, answered by the screech of a hungry maiwë.

“Fëanáro’s wife; you can see why they should feel thus,” Nyarnien replies at long last. “This army is your doing, more than anyone’s… and even Manwë should fear the wrath of a mother enraged, I think.” She turns, smiling wryly, “from what I have heard, _He_ did…”

“I had to speak the words – but they were not my feelings alone.”

“My Curufinwë may be dead,” Nyarnien swallows but does not weep, “and although I am still not sure I should not have preferred to remain in Mandos to greet him, I have not been here long enough to be branded a rebel.”

“The strength of your love for them is not in doubt, daughter,” Nerdanel says, “it is no competition of rebelliousness.”

“I wish… that I had not died; wish that I should have gone with them – perhaps…” Nyarnien says softly, yearning.

“No way to tell,” Nerdanel replies softly, wrapping her arm around her shoulders, “much might be different if we had gone, you and I… but much might not. It does not do to dwell in might-have-beens – we cannot change the past, no matter how we might wish it.”

“I am afraid, Mother Nerdanel,” Nyarnien whispers, looking out at the choppy waves, the brilliance of the sun sunk behind them leaving the waters grey and cool.

“I should think anyone who plans to join Ingwë’s forces would be well advised to be afraid,” Nerdanel replies. “But I have made you the best armour of anyone’s devising upon these shores, and I can give you no greater protection than that.”

“I do not fear death in battle,” Nyarnien laughs harshly, “not even a battle I am walking towards with my eyes open.” Her humour has turned slightly morbid during the years she has spent in Mandos, but no one is quite the same as they were before Morgoth came to Fëanáro’s door and Nerdanel does not remark upon her phrasing. “I fear… I fear only that my son will not know me.”

“Tyelpë will be joyous to reclaim you,” Nerdanel says softly, “he is waiting for you, just beyond the horizon.”

 “And still I am afraid to cross the sea,” Nyarnien admits, “though I must.” Gesturing at the grey waters, she smiles slightly. “He is my son…” Nyarnien replies firmly, “and they are my brothers.”

“And so you will go, and my spirit go with you,” Nerdanel smiles. “And I hope to greet you once more, to weep tears of joy at your safe return.”

“Only teardrops…” Nyarnien whispers, and this time her chuckle is fond and reasonably mirthful, not scathing as before. Nerdanel murmurs a sound that is not quite a question. Nyarnien shrugs. “Something my father once said…” she murmured, “that the Sea is only teardrops come between us. The Stars will guide you home.”

Nerdanel says nothing, but her smile speaks for her.


End file.
